Nov. 10 2016

I need to get back into the writing game. I need the therapy. 


Not sure if this is a wake up call

or the beginnings of a new

existential crisis.

My creative body has been left

for dead, while surviving

School, becomes merely tolerating

life itself.

Knots in my back have built

up to mountains.


She hums what the world needs now—

is love sweet love in the mornings.

I think its her way of coping, her way

of putting love out there, into the air.

She’s my outlet to the future, to understand

that I might still be the scared, sad, creature

I am now, in ten years time.


Computer screens, phone screens,

anxiously waiting for social texts,

my hands always occupied, my mind

always in a box, the passing of time,

the loss of moments.

Just the thought of going camping

could make me cry.


What if I regret spending the last of my

twenties in school?

What if I should buy that electric VW

and not go gentle into that good night?

Is going through the motions as

wasteful as suicide?

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